


Say Something (I'm Giving up on You)

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Can be read as slash, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Johnlock, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, PTSD Sherlock, Post Reichenbach, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reunion, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 13:52:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1390114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'It had been two weeks since Sherlock Holmes had returned from the dead. Things at 221B Baker Street were different. They did not discuss Sherlock’s time away, or John's suffering. The thing that bothered John the most was the silence, Sherlock Holmes was not supposed to be so quiet.'<br/>Sherlock returns after two years damaged and he and John struggle to rebuild what they once had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say Something (I'm Giving up on You)

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic is basically my head-canon that has been swirling around in my brain since series 2 aired. 
> 
> Warning: contains a brief rape flashback
> 
> Many thanks to Junasa44 for the language corrections, saving us all from the horrors of Google translate blunders.

 

 

John was sitting on the couch nursing a lukewarm cup of stewed tea. It had been a long shift in the emergency department and he was utterly drained, Graham Norton’s abrasive voice a constant background noise, drowning out the deafening silence that had plagued 221B Baker Street for two years. A flat that no longer felt like home, bereft without the constant noise of test tubes, violin sonatas and the buzz of utter chaos that accompanied an interesting case.

He would still wake in the middle of the night and strain his ears for the sounds of his flatmate, moving around, pacing frantically or just the quiet tap of keys, the comforting sounds of a warped domesticity. Then, like a powerful wave breaking over him, he would remember. The last words, Sherlock’s tears in his voice, the fall, blood mixing with rain water on the cold pavement. No pulse.  
In the mornings he would force himself from bed, go through the early morning routine, work or not. Everyone, even the media, had moved on, they had forgotten about the world’s only consulting detective and his blogger companion. John went about with his business, smiling at patients, going to the pub with Lestrade or having tea with Mrs Hudson. But nothing was the same, something in John’s world had shifted that day, a blanket muffling his life, grey dye seeped through London’s streets, Sherlock, and all the vibrancy that had come with the madman, had faded from John’s life again as quickly as he had come, as if the last 18 months had been a wonderful dream. But that dream had ended in tragedy, it was fitting he supposed, that Sherlock had died the way he had lived; dramatically. But that didn’t mean that he understood why, that the pain and the guilt, the terrible ‘what if’ feelings didn’t course through his veins every waking moment. What if he had seen the signs? What if he hadn’t left, what if he’d been just that bit quicker? He had given up on ever receiving his miracle a long time ago, accepting reluctantly that Sherlock Holmes would never be, not dead.  
He glanced down at the now undrinkable tea, and sighing, reached to place it on the neat coffee table, the flat looking markedly different without all the clutter, and froze halfway. Straining his ears, he heard it again, the tell-tale creak of the seventh stair, of someone slowly, so slowly, ascending to the flat. All of John’s instincts were firing at once, the rush of adrenaline in his blood a shock after so long. He silently and hurriedly retrieved his gun from its new home in the box under the couch, close at hand, levelling it firmly at the open door, with a soldier’s stance and steel in his eyes, he waited. And waited. Had the intruder paused to contemplate the meaning of life? What was taking so long? Just as he was about to lose his patience and stride to the door, a dark hooded figure emerged, shuffling stiffly from the shadows.

“Make one fucking move and you will regret it.”

  
The stranger lifted his bowed head, and choked out a single word,

  
_“John.”_

  
John Watson was not prone to flights of fancy, but in that split second, he swore he felt something crash down upon him, he felt as if his heart had simply given up the strength to keep beating. Because standing before him, hunched against his, their, doorframe, was Sherlock Holmes. Dressed in disgusting, baggy grey track pants, a gigantic black hoodie, ratty trainers duct-taped to his feet, his hair a dirty ginger tangle of short curls, he was filthy and stinking from head to toe of sweat and stale tobacco.

  
Rage hit John like a brick wall, and dropping his weapon he surged forward, his only thoughts were to hurt, to damage and to maim. His first blow threw the man backwards, and he grabbed the man’s tattered clothing, dragging him further into the flat, holding him up with the force of his anger. His fist connected with starkly contrasted cheekbones; again and again he rained the stranger, for he was a stranger, a dead man, with blows to his face and sternum. Sherlock collapsed to his knees, making not a sound or move to defend himself. John grabbed a fistful of greasy curls, tugging the man’s head up mercilessly, drawing back his fist again to strike, just as his eyes focussed on the face before him. Silver blue eyes met his, and what he saw there made him falter, to come aware of himself, of what he was doing, and what was he doing?! Horrified, he released the man and jumped back, staring in shock as the man, Sherlock, collapsed forward, his head thumping against the floorboards sickeningly. The sight of those eyes, filled with resignation, pain and defeat was too much to bear, the image burning into John’s mind, and he stared at his hands in disbelief.

  
“Oh God. Oh God. No, nononono,” the words falling from his mouth like a chant, a mantra, as he collapsed to his knees, his mind reeling from the shock of his complete loss of control, he reached for the limp figure. The man flinched at the barest touch on his arm, but did not resist as John rolled him onto his back, pulling his head into his lap. He cradled the man’s face, staring at his chest shakily rising and falling for several beats, becoming only too aware of the state that Sherlock was actually in, he needed serious medical attention.  
“Sherlock, I, I need to get up, to get some supplies, I’ll be right back, I promise.” John whispered desperately, switching into doctor mode. He received a pained moan which sounded vaguely like his name in response.

  
Once he had everything he needed, he returned to Sherlock’s side, his patient’s eyes shut tightly and breathing laboured. As he used scissors to cut away the rags that clothed his best friend, he felt the unnatural heat radiating from his body, and, brow furrowing further in concern, doubled his efforts. With every layer of clothing gently peeled away, John had to work harder and harder to force himself not to outright panic.

  
Sherlock had always been thin, but he had been muscular and lithe when John had known him, now he looked positively emaciated, dangerously underweight. But the evidence of Sherlock’s time away was scarred deep into his skin, new and old wounds that definitely had not been present when Sherlock had waltzed around the flat barely clothed. His chest was littered with dozens of thin white scars and cigarette burns, there was even an old bullet wound in his left thigh. His right humorous had been badly broken, there was a harsh pink scar where the bone had pierced the skin and then been unprofessionally reset, many of the scars looked like Sherlock had stitched them himself, which he later learnt was the case.

  
When he lifted him to carry his weakened friend to the bathroom, trying his best to ignore the pained whimper it elicited, he was shocked to the core at the state of the man’s back. He had been whipped repeatedly, like an animal, until his skin split and bled in long thick gashes, criss-crossing all over his back, an angry pink, John estimated about 6 months old. But what worried him the most was the deep, badly infected two week old stab wound that had been left to fester and heal to bloody clothing covering his left abdominal area, undoubtedly the source of the fever, and potentially life threatening on its own.

  
Numb, John carefully washed his patient’s body, knowing that hospital was not an option for a dead man. Sherlock was only half conscious, but was aware enough in his delirium for him to feel everything, all of the pain and every second of the shame. When he finally collapsed from pure exhaustion, John almost felt a sense of relief. As he pulled the limp dead weight that was Sherlock Holmes from the bathtub, his thoughts were interrupted by a hesitant and recently infrequent;

  
“Yoo-hoo,” Mrs Hudson tapped at the bathroom door, “Dear I know it’s late but there was such a commotion and…” John pulled the door open, his face stony. He watched her face pale as she raised a delicate hand to her mouth, taking in the scene before her. She was, however, much less surprised than John had been prepared for.  
“Oh Sherlock, oh you stupid boy! What have you done?! What have you done to yourself?”

  
“Mrs Hudson, D’you think you could make up his bed? And get something for him to wear? There are a lot of boxes in there and I need to,” he gestured to Sherlock, slumped against the wall, towel barely covering the man’s hips, “to, uh, I just, need-“

“Of course dear, I’ll handle it, just-look after him,” She choked out and rushed off.

  
Three days later after long sleepless nights, frantic calls to Molly for antibiotics, fevers spiking dangerously, feeding tubes, catheters, and near death experiences, Sherlock Holmes returned to consciousness.

  
~

  
Things at 221B Baker Street were different. They did not discuss Sherlock’s time away, or John’s suffering, not after Sherlock had briefly explained how he had faked his death, and most importantly why. His explanation of his time away was simply that he had been ‘dismantling Moriarty’s web’. He added no detail, and point blank refused to elaborate, despite John’s best efforts, Sherlock was stoically having none of it.

  
It was like talking to a brick wall, no matter how much John ranted and raved, and my god did he shout, Sherlock just put on his best blank face and John wasn’t even sure if he was hearing him. So they let the matter rest, much to John’s severe annoyance.

  
The atmosphere of the place was almost back to normal, well, their version of normalcy anyway, but there were some things that had changed, and both of them were having trouble adjusting to the added tension and everything left unspoken. The thing that bothered John the most was the silence, Sherlock Holmes was not supposed to be so quiet.

  
He hadn’t so much as looked in the direction of his violin, had no ongoing experiments and spent most of his day on the couch deep in thought. He spoke, ate and slept as little as possible, even less than before, and the smoking had gotten to the point where John had practically forced Sherlock out the front door to stop the smoke from suffocating them both.

  
Worryingly John had discovered the hard way that Sherlock was suffering badly from his time away, he startled violently at sudden noises and movements, was constantly alert and sometimes, John even heard him cry out in his sleep, though he was careful to sleep only in the middle of the night and rise early, in those moments John lingered at Sherlock’s firmly locked bedroom door before trudging, defeated, back to his room.

  
Although he had suffered from this himself, John had no idea how to help Sherlock, or even approach the subject with him, so he allowed the silence to continue. He just wished that Sherlock would say something, talk to him, or give him anything, anything at all to work with. They had moments when they were their old selves again and shared moments just like before, but with no cases (and not even a flicker of interest in them from Sherlock, who was officially dead anyway, and dead men can’t consult), there was little to discuss, and so, 9 days after the night when Sherlock returned, John decided to go back to work.

  
~

  
Sherlock had spent the previous day attempting to convince John not to go, which wasn’t all in itself unusual, but there was a hint of desperation to his attempts, a spark of panic in his silver eyes. The rest of the time he had sulked in silent protest. He himself never set foot outside the flat unless coerced to, preferring to smoke at the window, of his bedroom, at all other times avoiding standing too close to a window, alert to the danger of potential snipers. But that morning he was particularly anxious, and finally resorted to blocking John’s path to the door.

  
“John.”

  
“Damn it, Sherlock, let me past; you’re going to make me late!” John’s patience was quickly running out. As he tried to muscle his way past the still weak detective, Sherlock reached out and grasped John’s upper arm with more strength than John would have expected.

  
“John,” Sherlock’s tone insisted, “Don’t go. It’s, it’s not-”

  
“It’s not safe?” John’s tone softened, “Sherlock, if we are in some sort of danger you need to tell me, I’m not like you, I can’t read minds, I can’t deduce it. Is there someone out there still that I should be worried about?”

  
Sherlock huffed a breath of frustration, “No. There is no danger, we are perfectly safe,” he clarified, sounding far more like he was trying to convince himself of this rather than John.  
“Look, I get it, you’re having trouble adjusting, you still see danger on every street because you’ve lived with it for two years and-”

  
“I am not an invalid John. Good morning”, Sherlock snapped in retort, his face a cold mask of indifference as he swept out of the room, his blue silk dressing gown billowing in his wake like a cape. John sighed, leaning his forehead briefly against the doorframe as the slam of Sherlock’s bedroom door reverberated through the old building. John just prayed that Sherlock would get some rest and give himself a chance to heal.

  
~

  
Two weeks after Sherlock’s return, and life at Baker Street was much the same, the pair still settling into each other’s company. Although Sherlock’s name had been cleared a year ago in the media frenzy, the detective was still legally dead, and frustratingly, seemed to be content with it. He was still adamant that no one know he was alive, which concerned John, but honestly he was a little relieved that Sherlock was taking some time to rest, well, as much as he ever did, he definitely needed the break it seemed.

  
A small part of John was secretly pleased that he had the detective back and all to himself. But there was still something off about him, something darker. His black moods were more severe and frequent, going days without moving or showering, without uttering a sound. Most of the time he seemed trapped in his own head, staring vacantly from his position on the couch, or turning his head into the cushions as if to withdraw from the world, from John.

  
The Sherlock Holmes who had returned was not the same man who had left, part of both of them had died that day on the rooftop, perhaps more of Sherlock than John, and he missed their old dynamic as he had missed John.

  
Oh how he had missed John. Had missed London, missed his home, his life.

  
Terrible memories plagued him, memories of blood spilt, blood on his hands, hunting and being hunted like an animal, living on the streets or in terrible squats in more countries than he could name. The bitter cold of Germany, of Siberia, the rain and mud of Ireland and Scotland, the oppressing heat of the middle-east, yes Afghanistan too. Moriarty’s web had spanned far wider than he had ever imagined, even the smaller more disconnected groups too dangerous to leave be.

  
The collection of new tract marks that littered his forearms spoke volumes of the difficulty he had faced, the danger, the desperation. But the worst memories arose from his time in Serbia, memories he could not afford to delve into, but could not delete despite how hard he tried.

  
He was furious at his weakness upon returning, sentiment forcing its way to the surface, unable to stop his body from starting at the slightest touch or sound, his mind alert and humming, unable to shut off. He had never considered that everything wouldn’t be exactly the same as before, he was home, he was safe, and he had survived and come back, back to John. It was everything he’d worked for, everything he’d died for, but everything was wrong, his mind was betraying him.

  
He felt alone, no, he felt _lonely._ Sherlock Holmes didn’t get lonely, or he hadn’t, not since he was seven years old, but then, Sherlock Holmes was dead.

  
Finally, Sherlock’s body and mind collectively hit the wall. He had been awake for three nights and couldn’t even remember the last time he’d eaten, despite John’s wary fussing. He couldn’t stand the way John seemed cautious of him, unsure, and certainly worried. John had changed too it seemed, his smiles no longer came easily, he had been hardened in a way that even the war had not managed to accomplish, because of _him_.

  
Sherlock had miscalculated the effect that his suicide would have upon John, and, to an even greater extent, on himself.

  
He had no idea that John would be so affected, no idea how much the average, unassuming army doctor had wormed his way into his life and made himself so necessary to everyday functions, until he had paused, turned to share a sarcastic comment or deduction, or just have the reassurance of his solid presence. Only to then find himself alone and without.

  
And so, at 2.34 am he stumbled, drunken with exhaustion into his room, and collapsed, fully clothed onto expensive sheets, and slept. But with sleep, only came the dreams.

  
~

  
_He woke suddenly to pain, so much pain, and more pain that he had ever thought was possible._

_  
He was shackled, hands and feet on his stomach to a simple metal bed with a filthy bare mattress that stank of blood, vomit, urine and other, even more unpleasant scents that assaulted his hypersensitive senses. His back was bloodied and raw, burning and stinging with even the slightest movement, whipped almost to the bone. His left shoulder and wrist surely dislocated from desperate attempts to free himself, thrashing wildly, his right, completely useless, his eyes had watered and his throat was raw from screaming as he had felt it snap sickeningly._

_  
His body shook with tremors, fighting the withdrawal from countless unknown injections that had stormed through his mind, burning his mind palace to the ground with him still inside, whilst leaving his body vulnerable, still feeling everything. He had no idea how long he had been held here, the days and nights had blurred into one, various drugs clouding his senses. He knew the only reason that he was alive was that they were an incompetent and small operation, not close to the main organisation, thankfully they had no idea who he was, but they had given up interrogating him days (?) ago, now they just kept him for the sheer sick enjoyment of it. He was sure that he would die here, alone and used, John would never know, but at least he would be safe, perhaps it was for the best, he had never expected to survive._

  
_He was not alone and he shuddered in exhausted disgust as the man’s hands touched him, just another man, another thug, anther violation. An terrible keening noise ripped its way from his abused throat as he felt the stretching and tearing, blood and semen trickling down his legs as the man roughly fucked into him, pulling his hair back painfully and biting down hard into the sparse meat of his shoulder as he reached completion. Sherlock was at least thankful for the fact that despite Mycroft’s taunting, he did have at least some experience with this from experimentation in his uni days, even if it had been awfully messy and unsatisfying. After a few beats, Sherlock felt his restraints being removed and he was roughly shoved off of the bed onto the dirty warehouse floor. Blood back flowed into his limbs and he gagged and dry heaved onto the stone floor as his back tore open again from the sudden movement, fire flaring down his spine._

_  
Blows landed hard on his chest and groin, and he curled weakly onto his side to protect himself as cracked and bruised ribs fractured anew. His last thought was of John, safe and alive, thriving in the busy streets of London. He had given everything, given his all for John._

_  
He had nothing left to give._

  
~

  
John was rudely awakened at some ungodly hour by the most terrible noises that he had ever heard. Animalistic screaming, anguish and pain, ramped up to the extreme, flooded the flat, assaulting his ears.

  
In seconds he was fully alert and running down the stairs, his most basic instincts urging him to go to his flatmate, as the sounds, barely recognisably ones that could belong to Sherlock, tore themselves from his throat. He ran, panicked, shouting Sherlock’s name, skidding to a halt and hurling himself against the bedroom door, splintering the lock with great force as it slammed open.

  
The sight before him was one that he had never before seen in his life, and would haunt him for the rest of his days.

  
Sherlock lay on his back in the middle of his bed, sweat soaked and clothing rumpled, shifting frantically in sleep, face contorting frighteningly, and with more suffering than John thought possible. His breath caught in his throat and he resisted the urge to flee, to run, to do anything to get away from the terrible, desperate wrecked sound of Sherlock’s cries.

  
Terror seeped through John and without thinking he snapped out of his shock and lurched forwards onto the bed, grabbing at Sherlock, shaking him and desperately trying to wake him from his night terrors. Sherlock reacted like a wounded animal, screaming and thrashing, his fist catching John in the mouth with such force that he was thrown from the bed.

  
In the heat of the moment, John barely felt the blow, bouncing straight back up and dragging Sherlock’s unwilling body into his arms, firmly holding him immobile and yelling him into submission until he stopped thrashing and gave up, crumpling limply against John’s chest.

  
“Sherlock?” John asked hesitantly, painfully aware of the fact that Sherlock’s eyes were open, but blank and unseeing, “Sherlock, can you hear me? Sherlock?”

  
No response. Not even a flicker of recognition.

  
John’s doctor brain slowly rebooted, and the adrenaline faded from his system. He knew better than that, he knew not to fight to wake someone from a nightmare. His friend was now completely catatonic. _What the fuck have you done?_

  
John rocked him slowly, wetness crept down his face unapologetically, way past caring what it looked like, hushing and pleading for what felt like hours.

  
Sherlock didn’t stir. John stroked his face. Whispering nonsense, checking Sherlock’s vitals to assure him that the other man was still alive, the elevated beat of the detective’s heart brought him little comfort though, and he had to fight the memories of Sherlock's bloodied corpse from taking over.

  
Blindly he reached for the side table, scrabbling for Sherlock phone, he needed to... to do something, to make a call, but who could he call?

  
His finger hovered over Lestrade’s name, and then thought better of it, The DI may have seen Sherlock at some of his lowest points in the past, but he thought the shock of Sherlock’s resurrection would be too much to add to the situation right now, thinking guiltily of his own reaction.

  
Mycroft. He needed to call Mycroft. Sherlock wouldn’t likely thank him for calling his brother, but he was desperate, and Sherlock had briefly mentioned Mycroft’s part in helping him fake his death, he was the only person who could help, he would know what to do. Fingers slipping clumsily on the keys he hit call. Someone answered but didn’t speak, probably not familiar with the caller-id of Sherlock's brand new mobile.

  
“Mycroft? It’s John, it’s Sherlock, he-”

  
“Tragically, is dead, yes.” Mycroft’s crisp staccato voice quickly cut him off, as John realised his stupidity, the line may not be secure for such a sensitive conversation.

  
“Can you come? Please, it’s serious.” John tried to convey as much urgency whilst saying as little as possible, panic evident in his tone.

  
There was a pregnant pause.

  
“Certainly. I shall endeavour to be there within the hour,” Mycroft replied somewhat less calmly, though it was barely detectable, and rung off.

  
The next twenty minutes were the longest of John’s life, alternating between sitting perched on the edge of Sherlock’s mattress, restless hands carding through newly darkened curls, pacing a hole in the carpet.

  
John prayed to anyone who was listening, before turning his pleas to the man in question, begging Sherlock to hear him, to say something, not to give up, assuring him help was on the way.

  
The detective remained unresponsive, body limp and face disturbingly blank without his usual animation; it hurt John to see him so unnaturally still, so quiet. He thanked a god that he wasn’t sure existed for Mrs Hudson being out of town, visiting one of her seemingly endless list of sisters.

  
~

  
_Untold horrors flashed before his eyes, drug warped memories bursting free of their chains and bars to swirl and devour his mind palace, polluting the very air with their foul black swirling smoke, reaching for him as he sprinted, running for the doors, he must find an exit, must escape. The familiar corridoors closer resembled a foreign labyrinth than the well traversed halls of his memory palace._

_  
But Sherlock’s feet felt sluggish and numb as he tried to run, the lush carpets and hardwood floors melting into quicksand, the darkness reached him, its smothering heat consuming him, dragging him, helpless, towards the basement, screaming for anyone, for John. Moriarty’s manic laughter boomed through his mind, mixing with agonised screams, from those whose lives his taken, and those that had been ripped mercilessly from his own throat. And the blackness dragged him down, down and away from John’s desperate voice, calling his name._

  
~

  
Finally John heard soft but hurried footsteps approaching, John tensed, Mycroft never hurried, this was a bad sign. As the elder Holmes brother entered the room, umbrella noticeably absent and his clothes just slightly out of place, breath just slightly too close to a pant (had he been running?!), John caught a flicker of some unknown emotion pass across his face, gone too quickly to place, before he schooled his features into that ever present Holmesian mask, unreadable, falling into his practised roll of The British Government. There were a few long moments in which Mycroft gazed, sharply taking in everything, but somehow looking more softly upon the motionless figure of his brother, and John stared expectantly at Mycroft, terrified of the verdict to come.

  
“It seems that you are alive after all, brother mine,” Mycroft intoned quietly, Sharp eyes locked on Sherlock. Annoyance sparked in John at this statement.

  
“Of course he bloody well is, you knew he was all along you pompous bastard,” John snapped, in no mood for games or condescension. Mycroft regarded him dangerously, unimpressed at the doctor’s outburst.

  
“Whilst it may be true that I was aware of my brother’s initial…antics, I assure you that his continued existence is as much a shock to myself as it was for you.” He strategically (it had absolutely nothing to do with pride) left out the three days after Sherlock’s suicide in which he too had been fooled into thinking his brother dead.

  
“What?” John’s tone disbelieving, “You helped him, he was taking down Moriarty’s web, you, you were working together!”

  
Mycroft’s face darkened slightly, pondering carefully his response, before replying, frank and to the point; “I have not seen nor heard from Sherlock Holmes in twenty two months. We only communicated briefly after his departure; he needed a few files to follow a lead in Italy.” He wanted me to keep watch over you. John tried to process this new information, Sherlock, it seemed had slightly exaggerated Mycroft’s involvement, or allowed John to assume that there had been more contact, more support, than there really had been.

  
“So you don’t know what happened to him in those two years?” John asked quietly, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that his friend had been utterly alone against such dire odds, “I should have been with him.”

  
“I have some slight inclinations, but I admit, I was rather hoping you could tell me,” Mycroft huffed impatiently, moving closer to the bed to direct his full attention to his brother, his brow furrowing in concern. After a long pause, John’s anxiety increased, feeling restless as the older Holmes appeared to be completely focused, ignoring John’s presence.

  
“He appears to be in a state of stupor catatonia, no movement, unresponsive to stimuli for uh,” he checked his watch, “about an hour.” John rattled off Sherlock’s symptoms, trying to feel of use in an impossible situation, he was very far out of his depth here. Had it really only been an hour? “Has he ever experience these symptoms before?”

  
“Hmm, yes,” Mycroft murmured, still focused on his brother and not particularly forthcoming. After he glanced up to meet John’s pointed gaze, he sighed and further elaborated, “Not since he was a child, as a reaction to sensory overload, or, in certain…stressful situations, before he constructed his mind palace to store the input of data at age seven. In the past it has taken several hours to coax him back to become aware of his surroundings.”

  
With that, Mycroft turned his back on John, signalling an end to the conversation, and proceeded to ignore him and his bubble of nervous energy and worry.

  
To John’s surprise Mycroft immediately began to whisper furtively in what John could have sworn was urgent French. He caught the phrase ‘Où es-tu?’ several times as well as ‘Où es-tu mon frère? Il est temps de revenir maintenant’.

  
After several anxious minutes of a hushed one sided conversation, Sherlock seemed to show no improvement, and Mycroft’s increasingly irritated glances towards John’s nervous pacing sent him slinking from the room muttering something about tea.

  
~

  
_Sherlock lay, curled small like a child in the corner of the darkest, lowest foundation of his desolate mind, cold cement against his face, hands clamped down hard over his ears and eyes squeezed tightly shut. Everything he’d ever tried to shut out or had half deleted rushed at him in a swirling maelstrom of pain and emotion, and he was feeling every second of it, he couldn’t cope, he wanted it to end, he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could do nothing, helpless to endure and suffer. Alone._

_  
But somewhere above, a tiny pin prick of light, the faintest melodic sound, so familiar, lost a long time ago, a voice he knew well but was muffled, so he couldn’t hear the words, just the lilt of soft speech somehow permeating the oppressive screams that swirled above his head, and he clung to that sound like a lifeline, the tiniest bit of hope in all of his despair._

  
~

  
Four hours, copious amounts of tea and very little sleep later, Mycroft was lying stretched out on the bed beside his brother, back to the headboard, hand in his brothers hair, his suit jacket folded neatly, but still leaving him in dress trousers, a shirt, tie and waistcoat, (which John supposed was about as comfortable as Mycroft Holmes got) reading a worn copy of ‘Treasure Island’ in perfectly accented French. John had never imagined Mycroft as much of an openly affectionate person, but even so this moment was too intimate for him to feel as if he wasn’t intruding and he was dozing restlessly on the couch in the living room.

  
Mycroft reached the end of a chapter, Sherlock’s favourite chapter, and sighed, running his hands over his tired face, Sherlock should have been responding by now, and he was fast losing hope, doubtful that his efforts were having quite the same impact as they once had when his relationship with Sherlock was undamaged by resentments and betrayal. But he would not give up on his brother, not yet. He turned the page, clearing his throat to continue reading when he swear he felt Sherlock shift, his head turning slightly into Mycroft’s side, and so, holding his breath, the older Holmes again tried to coax his brother back to the land of the living.

  
“Sherlock? Frère, tu m'entends? You are long overdue. Il est temps de se réveiller.″

  
Sherlock stirred again, and Mycroft, encouraged, shook his shoulder gently, murmuring his name softly. Awareness slowly faded into his younger brother’s eyes and relief coursed through Mycroft’s veins as Sherlock mumbled sleepily;

  
“My?”

  
“Yes, brother, I am here. Rest now,” Mycroft cooed, trying to soothe his brother’s exhausted confusion, as he lifted his head with apparent super human effort, and looked around blurrily.

  
“’s John here? John. Is John safe?” Sherlock’s hand grasping his brother’s forearm in alarm as he came back to his senses, still not quite able to let go of the feeling of being unsafe. Mycroft extracted himself from his almost painful grip and went to fetch John.

  
As he left the flat, his brother in John’s capable arms, literally and figuratively, Mycroft knew that there would be a lot of work to do to rehabilitate his brother into the land of the living, but, recalling the look of sheer relief and joy on John Watson’s tired face as he held his now just sleeping friend, he had little doubt now that Doctor Watson would in fact be the making of his brother after all.

 


End file.
